“Not far.” Arman pointed. “The obelisk of black marble you see by the lake. Once the obelisk stood in front of Duncan’s Tomb, but that was before it was torn out of the earth. A statue of the prince stands at the site, and beyond it are the remains of a marble archway that crumbled when the mountain shook.”
Arman cast a glance at Flint. “What do we do once we reach the prince’s tomb? Unless you would rather not tell me,” he added stiffly.
Flint felt he owed the young dwarf something. Arman had given him his hammer, after all.
“I’m to take the helm to his tomb,” said Flint.
Arman stared, astonished. “That is all? Nothing about the Hammer?”
“Not in so many words,” Flint said evasively.
There had been a feeling, an impression, but nothing specific. That was the main reason he hadn’t said more to his friends and yet another reason he had decided to leave them behind.
“But you agreed to make the wager with Realgar—”
“Ah, now,” said Flint, walking among the mounds of the dead, “what dwarf who calls himself a dwarf ever turned down a bet?”
Tasslehoff stared at the bronze doors, then he went over and gave one of the doors a swift kick, not so much because he thought he could kick the door open, but because he was so profoundly annoyed with them. Tas’s toes tingled all the way up to his shoulders, and he became more annoyed than ever.
Dropping his hoopak onto the ground, Tas put both hands on one of the doors and pushed. He pushed and pushed, and nothing happened. He paused to wipe the sweat from his face and thought to himself that he wouldn’t go to this much trouble for anyone except Flint. He also thought that he’d felt the door give just a little, so he pushed again, this time throwing all his weight into it.
“You know who would come in handy about now?” Tas said to himself, pushing with all his might on the door. “Fizban. If he were here, he would hurl one of his fireballs at this door, and it would just pop open.”
Which is exactly what the door did at that moment.
Pop open. With the result that Tas found himself pushing against nothing but air and sunlight, and he landed flat on his face on the ground. Landing flat on his face reminded Tas of something else Fizban would have done—given the absence of flame, smoke, and general destruction that usually accompanied the daft old wizard’s spells. Tas spent a moment lying in the grass, sighing over his friend’s demise. Then, remembering his Mission, he jumped to his feet and looked about.
It was then he realized that the bronze door was swinging shut behind him. Tas made a leap for his hoopak and managed to haul it inside at the last moment before the door boomed shut. Turning around, he looked up into the sky and saw the floating tomb, and he heard what sounded like a hammer striking a gong. The kender was enthralled.
Tas lost several moments staring at the tomb in dumbfounded wonder. The hammer was up there in that tomb that was floating in the sky, and Flint was going up there to get it. Tas gave a moist sigh.
“I hope I don’t hurt your feelings, Queen Takhisis, when I say this,” he said solemnly, “and I want to assure you that I still plan to visit the Abyss someday, but right now the place I most want to be in all the world is up there in Duncan’s Tomb.”
Tasslehoff trudged off in search of his friend.
The tomb of Prince Grallen was one of many cairns, tombs, and burial mounds that had been constructed around the lake in the center of the valley. Here, around the lake, Thanes and their families had been buried for centuries. Grallen’s tomb was the only empty tomb, however; left open to receive the body that would never be found. The tomb was marked by a black obelisk and a life-size statue of the prince. The statue was of the prince in full battle regalia, but it held no weapons. The hands were empty as the tomb, the head bare.
Kharas stood before the statue of the prince, his head bowed in respect, his own helm in his hand. Flint, his mouth dry, walked slowly forward, carrying the Helm of Grallen. He was at loss to know what to do. Was he supposed to place the helm in the empty tomb? He started to turn away, when he felt a chill touch on his flesh. The stone hands of the statue were resting on his own.
Flint’s stomach lurched. His hands shook, and he nearly dropped the helm. He tried to move, but the stone hands held him fast. He looked into the statue’s face, into the eyes, and they were not empty stone. They shone bright with life.
The stone lips moved. “My head has been bare to the sun and the wind, the rain and the snow these many long years.”
Flint shuddered and wished he’d never come. He hesitated, nerving himself, and then, quaking in fear, he placed the helm on the statue’s head. Metal scraped against stone. The helm slid over the cold face and covered the eyes. The red gem flared.
“I go to join my brothers. Long have they waited for me that we could make this next journey together.”
A feeling of peace flowed through Flint, and he was no longer afraid. He felt overwhelming love, love that forgave all. He let go of the helm almost reluctantly and stepped back and bowed his head. The feeling of peace faded away. He heard Arman gasp, and when he could see through the mist that covered his eyes, Flint saw the prince now wore a helm of stone. He choked back the lump in his throat, rubbed the moisture from his eyes, and looked about. Finding what he sought, he circled around the obelisk.
“What do we do now?” Arman asked, following after him. “Where are you going?”
“That arch over there,” Flint said, pointing.
“The arch was a monument to Kharas,” said Arman. “It fell down when the tomb was torn from the earth. It lay in ruins for many years. My father had it rebuilt and rededicated in hopes that it would lead us to the Hammer, but nothing came of it.”
Flint nodded. “We have to walk through the arch.”
Arman was skeptical. “Bah! I’ve walked through the arch countless times and nothing happened.”
Flint made no reply, saving his breath for walking. As Raistlin had so unkindly reminded him, he was not getting any younger. The fracas with the mob, the hike through the valley, and the encounter with the statue had taken its toll on his strength. For all he knew, he was a long way from the hammer.
The arch was made of the same black marble as the obelisk. It was very plain with nothing carved on it except the words, “I wait and watch. He will not return. Alas, I mourn for Kharas.” Flint halted. He rocked back and forth on his feet, making up his mind, then, sucking in a huge breath and shutting his eyes, he ran through the arch. As he did so, he shouted out loudly, “I mourn for Kharas!”
Flint’s run should have taken him to the brown grass on other side of the arch. Instead, his boots clattered on rickety wooden floor boards. Shocked, he opened his eyes and found himself in a shadowy room lit by a single ray of sunlight shining through a narrow arrow slit in a stone wall. Flint sucked in a breath and let it out in awe. He turned around, and there was the arch, far, far behind him. He heard a distant voice cry, “I mourn for Kharas” and Arman appeared in the archway. He stared around in wonder.
“We are here!” he cried. “Inside the tomb!” He sank to his knees. “My destiny is about to be fulfilled.”
Flint stumped over to the arrow slit and peered out. He looked down on brown grass and a sun-lit lake and a small obelisk. His eyes widened. He took a hasty step backward.
“Quick! Block the entrance!” he bellowed, but he was too late.
“I mourn for Kharas,” cried a shrill voice.
Tasslehoff Burrfoot, hoopak in hand, burst through the arch.
“You promised you were going to take me, Flint,” he said, “but I guess you forgot and I didn’t want you to feel bad, so I came along myself.”